SMALL COMFORTS by BEEINYOURBONNET RATED FRC

Sometimes it's the smallest gestures that mean the most.

Scott's hands shook. It was a secret that he kept closely guarded from his family. To them he was - and had always been - the very embodiment of cool and courage. Even before he had joined the ranks of International Rescue, he had been decorated for valour during his service with the US Air Force; a remarkable distinction given his significant youth at the time. Indeed, in many ways, he was the perfect leader and pilot. He was strong, decisive, daring...everything that Jeff Tracy had ever hoped that his eldest son would be.

But then, when Scott took to the air in Thunderbird 1, the shaking would begin.

An involuntary tremor would run down his arm, his fingers trembling as he gripped the controls. The by-now familiar knot of fear would gather in the base of his stomach, ice-cold beads of sweat forming on his tanned brow. Never mind the actual mission itself...it took all of the young man's resolve simply to quell the tide of nausea that rose at the back of his throat.

Because the truth was, beneath his mask of steely determination, Scott was terrified.

...Terrified of failing his brothers.

...Terrified of losing them.

And that was the risk that they all took. Every time that they donned the famous blue-capped uniform, there was always a chance that one of them would be hurt - or worse - and as the official field-leader of the Thunderbirds team, Scott understood only too well the massive responsibility that had been placed upon his shoulders. All it would take would be one tiny mistake on his part...just one single miscalculation...and the consequences would be dire for them all. It was that terrible thought drove his every waking moment, and haunted his deepest nightmares when he was asleep.

...The thought that his brother's lives were - quite literally - in his hands...

It was perhaps no wonder then, in that case, that Scott Tracy's hands shook.

Night-time at Tracy Island, and Virgil stood in the open doorway to the lab, a mug of steaming-hot coffee nursed in his hand.

The laboratory was quiet, but it had its own soft pulse: a subtle murmur of machinery that was constant in the background. The room was cool and smelt vaguely damp, the air thick with the metallic tang of motor-oil. Various technical drawings of Thunderbird 1 were pinned to the walls and a single desk- light glowed weakly against the surrounding darkness.

Part office, part mechanics lab: this was Scott Tracy's private work place.

Scott sat alone at his desk, a pile of blue-prints scattered before him. His forehead resting in his palm, he poured over the papers with an almost feverish intensity, lips moving in wordless motion as he ran through endless mental calculations. Virgil sighed inwardly as he watched his brother work. It was almost half-past three in the morning...what on earth was he doing?

With his still, solemn eyes and unshakably calm demeanour, Virgil held himself with an air of quiet resolve. Of all the Tracy sons, he was generally considered to be the passive one, the self-possessed one...a reserved artist in a family of bold and courageous young men. But alongside his artistic faculties, he also possessed a gift for astute observation. He watched Scott now, studying him with all of the silent intensity that he would a subject for a painting. In one way or another, Virgil had been watching Scott his entire life, and knew - perhaps better than anyone - all the things that went through his brother's mind.

Bare feet padding quietly on the concrete floor, he approached Scott's desk and wordlessly set the cup of coffee down upon it.

The action was enough to make Scott hesitated in his work. His hand hovered uncertainly over a stack of papers, a ghost of a frown playing on his brow. For a short moment, he seemed to hesitate...then, slowly, he looked up. Dark blue sought hazel brown as the two brother's eyes met and held, a glimmer of unspoken understanding passing intangibly between them.

Neither said anything. In truth, no words were required.

Silently, Scott lowered his eyes to the steaming cup of coffee placed before him. The tired lines on his face seemed to ease somewhat, a look of heartfelt gratitude briefly relaxing his features. For the first time that night, he pushed the heap of blue-prints to one side.

"Thanks Virgil," he murmured quietly, accepting the cup with hands that no longer trembled.

Virgil smiled - small and serene - and gave a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"It's no trouble."